Preservation
by Kourion
Summary: When she thinks of moonlight, she thinks of him, that night, and of how her wrists stood out in brutal shades of purple and white of bone. And how everything about her was ugly, except for the bone. The bone was pretty. *C/S centric* Rape warning.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Preservation

**Author:** Kourion

**Summary:** When she thinks of moonlight, she thinks of how her wrists stood out in brutal shades of purple and whites of bone. And how everything about her was now ugly, except for the bone. The bone was pretty, and the bone preserved her.

**Warnings:** this story deals with the aftermath of rape, and the subsequent world of disordered eating and self-harm.

* * *

Kourion's notes:

Nov. 31st, 2009

I've been sick. Vomiting, ulcer-sick… doctor-sick, _hospital_-sick. I'm doing better now, and I just want to thank everyone for their patience, esp. with regards to my (hitherto very neglected) story, _**Signal to Noise**_. Updates, for that one, shortly.

* * *

**Part 1**

_"Sometimes even to live is an act of courage."_

~Lucius Annaeus Seneca, _Letters to Lucilius_

**-Sid's POV-**

She's having nightmares again, and I feel like a git.

I know better, because I know the routine. And while it may have been a part of her life before me, I can't help but feel as if I'm a critical piece in the puzzle that is Cassie-self-destruction.

And it has gotten better – all of that shit – but it's not entirely gone, and I know it. I know even when she tries to hide it, if for no other reason than she tries to _hide_. Her eyes, her arms …and her body most of all. She pulls away and won't let me **see**, won't let me touch her, or hold her.

It should have caused me to act a long time ago, even if no one else was doing so…

I should have broached the issue, asked her what was wrong when she slept, when she dreamt. Her body so small and tense, and then sometimes she'd mumble disjointed words in her sleep, and none of them sounded good, none of them were easy to hear - and so I didn't ask at all. Not once.

I think that's why I realize now, tonight, with such staggering clarity...what a fuck-up of a boyfriend I've been.

How many times has she woke up in the night, only to turn inwards, quiet, but equally telling in her muteness? Her face buried against my side, her face concealed by my t-shirt, her frame barely moving - save for her all-too rapid breathing? And my shirt would go damp where she lay, and then after a few minutes she'd turn her back to me; I could always sense when the tears had stopped, and I'd be relieved. So I let it go.

_**I'm so pathetic. I've let this go on too bloody long.**_

Maybe I was the only one in the world that could feel her ribs sticking out like knives under that moth-pale body. Or see the pronounced lines of her hips when we'd move together as one. Or when she seemed exceptionally distant, and wouldn't lie with me like that, well, even then I could see that something was terribly wrong. Even if I couldn't touch her, check her arms, see that she hadn't made a mark lately – even then I could see the god-damned signs…

**_Like the way her face and forearms are becoming soft again with that…fur…_**

There is no other word for it than that, than fur. Not _hair_. Not normal hair like you'd find on any girls arm – blonde and natural. No, this is different, as I've recently learned. I might not have known what it was before, but I do _now_. I know exactly what it means - that awful glistening opalescence that runs up and down her back, clings to her cheeks, or to the sides of her arms.

_**It means she's starving herself again.**_

I commented on it once, a little concerned, but mostly ignorant and unaware of its significance. Cassie brushed it off with mock lightness, but I could sense the self-consciousness. And then she wouldn't let me see more, and took off to the washroom. When she returned 20 minutes later, the fur was gone – that sickly white fuzz that reminded me of a newborn bear - was just absent, which somehow (_somehow_!) made her face seem even more drawn, more angular.

That night was significant for several reasons, one of which I didn't fully appreciate, one that I could; it was the first time I had heard her say the words I don't doubt she often feels:

"_**I'm so ugly."**_

It was more an angry tangle of sounds than a coherent sentence, but I could make it out, and for a few moments afterwards I could only hear my pulse and nothing else.

To me, of course, Cassie is nothing if not pretty. She's whimsically, gamine-like pretty… like a pixie, or a faerie.

"_How can you even think that for a second, Cass? You're beautiful!"_

Her eyes were wet. _"No…I'm not. I'm so ugly, Sid. You have no idea."_

I didn't bother arguing with her; I knew it wouldn't be productive, and I'd end up getting frustrated. But I vowed to go to the library the next day, get what I could on her…conditions. Maybe start calling them by name, get her to say them too. Because I was starting to feel like something was building in her, like a poison, and if I didn't help her soon…well…

I was worried that something terrible would happen.

**//**\\**

It'll start with her typical reluctance to eat.

I knew long before we started dating that Cassie was_ so far from okay_ when it came to eating that it wasn't funny. I knew that I was opening myself up to a whole whack of problems. I knew it, but I dismissed it.

Everyone has problems, and who was I to say that her quirks were something wretched? To me – in the beginning – they were just _that_ – just quirks. And I loved her for them, in a way.

So I started my first real relationship, certainly my first real physical relationship, with Cassie. And she seemed to be fine with it, with what we would do together, when her parents were away. She'd drink sometimes, before, but Cassie drinks more than she eats, and I really didn't see the connection until we'd been dating for several months, when I found her in the bathroom one night drinking Vodka straight from the bottle, hands shaking.

It was the first time that I felt as if Cassie was actually afraid to have sex, afraid to be with me like that. Something started to squirm within…some strange warning. Something unnamable.

_"We can do it…I kn..know you want to do it, Sid. Just give me another minute, and I'll be ready, yeah? Just one more minute."_

Her next sentence – _"I'm not drunk yet"_ – unspoken, but also unnecessary. I knew exactly why she was drinking like a fish.

She looked plastered, eyes red, and I felt that same fear as before spike with her words, and flop in my belly. Every sexual urge that I had had before _dissipated_ – and if moments before I had felt such need to be with her, inside of her, and stay that way in our rocking until the need went away – now I felt nothing but a strange sense of dread.

Her voice wasn't normal, and something in me knew it. Knew it the second she spoke - like flipping on a switch. And suddenly, she spoke, and it rang clear, true – unbalanced. My feeling of sickness increased, and I couldn't reason my fear away.

I remember…I kissed her on the lips. Gently. Chastely. My voice was barely more than a whisper, on account of her look of anxiety.

_"We don't have to do that tonight, Cass. You never have to do that, unless you want to. You know that, right?"_

I kissed her, and cringed against her next words, which sounded exceptionally harsh, and which still didn't answer my question.

_"I thought you wanted to fuck me."_

She hadn't meant it to sound accusatory, or _wrong_. Her voice was soft, the shakiness of earlier – gone. It wasn't a question, but a statement of acknowledgement.

Yet I could hear the relief all the same, and the prickling sense of fear attacked my insides yet again.

"_No…not tonight. Can I hold you, Cassie? Just hold you – until we fall asleep?"_

She let me do that, and it was then that so many of the pieces started falling into place.

She didn't have a nightmare that night. She didn't cry out in her sleep, or wake up and cling to me like a lifeline.

She just slept.

**//**\\**

This is how it begins.

She'll get antsy, and at first it will start with typical Cassie-oddness. She'll become obsessively neat; organizing the towels by colour, making sure they are perfectly folded, making sure the food in the cupboards is turned just so - the labels front and center, the world ordered and perfect.

Then it will advance to cleaning, not just organizing, but flat out germ-phobic scouring. And the worst of the worst will be the cleansing of _herself_ – in baths of extreme temperatures. Usually too hot, and I'll have to pick at the door lock with an old chop stick to get in – because she'll always lock it - though she doesn't seem to protest much when I hold her hands still if she's having one of her…episodes.

Sometimes I'll find her in the tub clad in ridiculously laced underwear, corsets maybe, boy shorts and socks. She'll sit like that – underwear on, in a too-hot bath, her skin reddened not just by the heat of the water but also by vigorous scrubbing with a nailbrush.

One time I found her using a steel pot scrubber, and on that occasion I freaked, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. Hairline cut marks – so narrow, like microscopic glass shards – whorled her skin, and the water had turned pink from the open wounds – the multitude of wounds – crazing her skin.

"_Oh Jesus CHRIST, Cassie! What are you doing!?"_

And I ran to her that day, pried the scrubber out of her hands, held her close to my body, not caring that my clothes were getting soaked, or that red was pluming into my t-shirt.

When the water's not boiling, it's frigid, and in those times she's more likely than not to be naked, her lips blue, her eyes unfocused. It's almost ritualistic: she'll wear clothing when the water's hot, and nothing when it's freezing, and I find the whole compulsiveness of her actions almost as scary as what she's doing in the first place.

"_I don't know why, Sid. Please don't make me say why. I don't know why. I __**have**__ to do this. Please let me finish…"_

_The water was pink, Sid. The water was pink and she still wanted to clean, _

_and you COULDN'T see the truth?_

_Couldn't see what it added up to?_

Maybe I'm wrong.

Fuck that.

**Please let me be wrong.**

**Part 2**

***//***\\***

_"Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down."_ ~Bede Jarrett

***//***\\***

Her arms are lined with her cries - louder than any vocalized pain - and I _knew_ it, but I didn't know _why_. I heard the language, but I didn't _know_ the language. That made all the difference. It made me hesitant to act, because I didn't know where to start.

But Cassie gave signs. So many signs, and she did nothing else for years but send out flares – SOS's for help; bright, bloody 10-foot neon signs, for fuck's sake. She gave as many signs as she could without opening her mouth, without speaking the words. I see that now.

And tonight she is crying again, and I know it has to change, because she's starting to look gaunt once more.

I'm going to have to wake her up, even if it's easier to just stay in the dark.

I start by taking one hand and prying it apart from the bedding, as she's wringing her sheets in tortured restlessness. I manage to do so, and she stays asleep. For now.

Then I take one hand, gingerly – the wrist so thin, the arm itself so fine, like china - and unfurl her fingers, which look cramped up and sore.

Her voice is a low whimper, a low-grade whine. The sound is revolting in its pleading need for rest, for a pause from the assault on her mind.

"_Shussh, Cass."_

I take the hand, and entwine her hand in mine – like she so often does when seeking comfort, or when trying to provide it to another.

"_Wake up, baby. It's just a nightmare Cass."_

I could never call her baby when awake. I don't know why. I suspect she wouldn't take it well, and I have nothing to go off other than intuition, though such thoughts scatter when I hear the clarity of her words this time – sharper than before, her hands pressing against mine in force, in wretched sleep.

_**"Please, no. Pleeease stop. No, pleeeease. PLEEEEASE!"**_

**_Oh fucking God._**

**I have to wake her up now.**

"Wake up, Cassie!," the shrillness of my voice and the increased shaking of her body does the trick. The eyes open, unfocused, her face poised, ready to cry.

"Sid?"

So soft, I wonder if I imagined it.

"Yeah, Cass. It's just me. You were having a nightmare again, baby."

It slipped out, but she doesn't seem to hear it, or if she does, she ignores what I've said and instead turns inwards, to me, and reaches out to hold onto my body. Her routine, so I let her hold onto my shirt, my waist, because I know it calms her down quicker than anything else.

Looking down at her now, I can only see part of her face and the wisps of blonde hair curling around her temple from the sweat of her skin.

Her sheets are actually damp with sweat.

"You were having a really bad nightmare, Cass. Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head, mute – like always.

I change tactics.

"You're having so many of them Cassie. All the time. It…worries me. I think maybe it would help – to talk? Maybe to talk about them, maybe just to talk about what happens in them? Sometimes that helps – to keep them from coming back…"

Her voice, once more, sounds lost.

"I don't want to talk about them, Sid. They're not nice images. I want to think about lovely things, and everything in them is horrible."

I absently stroke her hand, her arm. Swirling strokes, to comfort her. Or maybe to comfort myself, though I am not comforted in the slightest as I can now feel the damn downy fur covering her again.

Something has to give.

_For Cassie. You're doing this for her._

"You're getting too thin again, love. The…hair is back. On your arms."

"I don't want to talk about that either, Sid. I just…don't. You won't understand, and I can't make you understand."

I need her to see. I need her to see what's happening – what she's doing to herself.

"Understand _what?_ You remember what that doctor said…about the signs? You can't relapse, Cass. Not like before…"

She cuts me off.

"Sid, no – I'm fine, I'm totally fine! Everything about me is fine. I don't sleep well, but I never have, and I haven't lost, not anymore, and how I am now - that's normal for-"

_('I'm totally better now. Totally better.')_

I've heard this before and don't believe it for a second.

"No, **this** is not normal… You know that's crap, Cass!"

"Yes, I'm alright! It's normal for me now, and maybe-"

I can't stand this anymore. And I can't stand it because I care about her. I can't beat around the bush any longer.

"When did you last have your period?"

Her objections stop immediately and she seems to recoil a little in the bed, so I reach out to stop her from getting up and outright leaving, like she so often does when she doesn't want to discuss a particular subject. I can see the flush of crimson splayed out over her cheeks, even in the darkness.

"I can't believe you asked me that," she says, her discomfort evident in the fact that she's barely whispering, and I strain to hear.

"Cassie – it's a simple question. But no one else is going to ask it, and you know that. You never go to the doctors! And you know I wouldn't ask you unless it was important. If this is normal – if nothing's wrong – then answer me that! How long since your last one?"

Trust me, I don't want to do this. But nothing else has worked. And while most guys would be perfectly content not having to deal with these kinds of conversations, the truth is... I know it's a sign of general health. Or lack thereof. And I'm concerned.

She curls up, away from me, her spine coming up through the thin, sweat soaked gown. I can count her vertebrae, and feel almost revolted. Not by her…but by this_ thing_, this _demon_, which plagues her.

I'm just about to speak again, when I hear her voice, tentative.

"I don't know. I haven't had…it…for awhile."

At least she's talking to me.

"What's awhile? Did you have one last month?"

She sits up straight, frustration clearly displayed on her fine features.

"No, Sid! Alright? Okay? Not that it's ANY of your business, really. But I haven't had one in YEARS," and her voice breaks at that, her eyes wild, "and you know why? OF course you don't, but you HAVE to know because it's so NORMAL right? Because I should want to bleed like that – for no good reason, right? So I MADE it stop, and you're telling me that it's wrong to not want to bleed?"

I don't know why she's so angry, but if I don't find out the answer tonight, I'm never going to. I know Cassie well enough. She'll go to bed, wake up, pretend that nothing ever happened, aside from a bouquet of wildflowers left on my desk in apology. But that'll be it.

"Cass, you've _MADE_ yourself bleed. Every time you take one of those damn baths! Or have a nightmare – don't think I don't know! I see the cuts, Cassie. I see when they are new. I see every time you do this!"

Her arm is in my hands before I can comprehend what I'm doing, and the arm, now exposed to moonlight, reflects the dozen or so fresh cuts that Cassie so diligently attends to with special concealer in the morning, but which stand out in stark relief against her all-too pale skin after her shower.

Tonight they lay horribly true, and washed free from cover-up; a testament to her attraction to knives, and to using them on her own flesh.

"You cut yourself _to _bleed, Cass! Why is THAT necessary?"

And I'm not mad. I'm really not. But the fear I've pushed aside in the years that I've known her feels excessively burdensome tonight, resoundingly strong.

"Because it's not the same thing! Because I do it to _ME_. NO ONE ELSE does it to me! I do! I control it! No one can take that away from me!"

And then that's it. Then she's done – done with her words - and is out of bed before I can stop her. Five seconds, ten seconds and she's at the toilet not thirty feet away.

Just as quickly, so am I – drawn to the sound of vomiting. To that familiar dry heaving - unforced and raw. I go to her confused, worried, absolutely terrified, and take her hair, hold it back behind her head while she retches once more.

Her fingers grasp terribly white and for a fleeting moment I feel nothing but grief.

In the end, she doesn't bring up much. Bile, a little water maybe, nothing else. Not that I'm surprised. I doubt she ate anything today. Today's been a sketchy day for her.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you. I just…I can't see you go on like this anymore. It scares me."

She shivering in the moonlight – the bathroom light turned off.

"Let's get you back to bed. You're freezing."

And she is, too. Her hands feel like blocks of ice, and I usher her back gently, help her get in and then retrieve her water bottle from her backpack on the floor.

She takes the nalgene bottle gratefully, sips a bit to rinse her mouth, then places it beside her on the nightstand.

I hold her again, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, her chest, lightly – just to support her, and it works – and the trembling dies down.

"I won't pressure you anymore, Cass," I repeat, desperate for her to hear me, to hear my apology. I'm not her therapist. I should never have pushed her.

"You promise you won't if I do?"

Her face is away from mine, and I can't see her eyes.

"If you what?"

"Tell you why."

The stroking of my thumb against her hand comes to a stop.

"You can tell me anything, Cassie. You know that, right?"

I hear her swallow, it's so quiet.

"You promise…you won't make me talk about it again?"

What?

She continues. "You won't make me talk about it after tonight, right? Then it will be over? For good?"

Her voice has taken on a pleading tone, and I don't know if I should agree to anything right now.

"I won't force you to do anything, Cass."

She stills, and doesn't speak for an impossibly long time.

"In the nightmare, I'm in a park. It's very late. Almost morning, but still pitch black. I'm mad because my mum and dad left me alone with the shadow monster. In the daytime the shadow monster goes away. He's never there when it's very light, or when it's very dark, because he goes away in the sunlight and sleeps when it's dark. But he comes out when it's very early – when shadows come out - and I'm so scared because it's almost morning. And he's coming back for me, Sid, to come into me and become my shadow."

Cass's voice sounds terribly young – and terribly frightened, and I try to slow the racing of my heart because I know that can't be all there is to it. That's too simple. That can't be _**it.**_

"How old are you? In the nightmare?" I shouldn't have to qualify, but I do anyway, whispering. I sense that Cassie will find it easier to speak if I don't look directly at her, if I don't study her.

She starts again with a shutter.

"I was…I was 12. I had just turned 12, and I was angry that my mum and dad made me stay with the shadow monster because I was too old to be watched. And I knew he would want to...want to..._oh christ, Sid._ He'll eat me because I'm older, and I know…"

**Something's wrong here. Something's terribly wrong.**

"Do you go home? Does he find you?"

She's shaking, and I do my best to comfort her – brushing my thumb up and down over her hand again, my arms wrapped around her torso, her back to my front, pulled in.

"Y-_yes_. He finds me in the park. He's waiting for me over on the bridge, down by the pond, so I don't see him. It's too dark. But then I do, by the lantern, and he sees me too. And I know I can't scream, because he'll eat me if I scream. He is on me right away, and becomes my shadow so fast…"

I hear her push down a weird mewling sound, like a kitten crying for its mother, and I realize she's trying hard not to burst into tears.

"He has black arms that wrap around my mouth and no one can hear me…and he goes inside me to become my shadow, to take mine out and eat it."

My mouth feels dry. She's rambling.

"Cassie. What did he_ do?"_

I know this is not just a nightmare.

**We both know it**.

"He eats me. In the dark, and no one is there, and he eats and eats and he has a lot of food because I was so fat, Sid! I was so fat when I was little, so he keeps eating all my flesh and I'm…starting to bleed…because I'm 12, and I can…bleed now. And he doesn't care that I'm bleeding. I didn't even know, Sid. It was my first time bleeding, I didn't know until then how much it would scare me. There is blood all over my legs, and I know I can't scream because the shadow monster will kill me…"

Her voice breaks from its fervent pitch to uncontrolled sobbing, which numbs me, because it confirms my suspicions.

"Cassie, oh god, I'm so sorry, Cass." I can barely speak. I don't trust myself not to cry, and I can't shake the coldness that is coursing through my veins.

"_See?,"_ her eyes briefly meet mine, imploring me to understand her skewed views. "I told you I was ugly!"

I feel like someone has ripped out my heart. My chest hurts. It burns, and she turns away just as quickly, as if my silence is confirmation that her words speak truth.

"You were just a little girl, Cass. Someone did something horrific to you, and that doesn't make you any less beautiful. It makes _them_ ugly. Not you."

Cassie turns to face me, her eyes swollen, and I almost wish she hadn't – because her face crumples when she makes eye contact.

"He _broke my wrist_, Sid! See?," and I can FEEL the hardened nub of bone – malformed and strangely raised under her delicate skin - her fragile, wasting exterior.

She closes her eyes, her voice dropping several octaves.

"I tried to get away, Sid. I really tried. That's why I broke my wrist. I was trying to get away. I didn't…_didn't want it_."

"I know, Cassie."

"He…needed to finish, and I wouldn't stay still so…he held my arms back and I fell, and my wrist went back."

My chest feels constricted. I never knew I could feel this much pain for someone else.

"The bone came out. It hurt but the pain helped me...it _did._ I think it helped to preserve me. Do you see? It came out and it was the only thing left that I had… the only thing left that was **me**. That pain. That bone. It was the only pretty thing left! It was the only thing that made him stop!"

Her voice fades to almost uncontrolled shaking gibberish, fear mounting in her eyes.

"Y-you _can't_ tell. Promise me, Sid. Not to anyone. _No one_. PROMISE me."

Her small fists, bundled under damp sheets, come to lightly pound my chest.

"NO one else can know. _**Ever**_. Promise."

I gulp down my horror, need permeating my next question.

"Who did it, Cassie? Who raped you?"

I've never seen Cassie outright sob, but I do then, as she erupts into the most pained weeping I've ever heard, hands over her ears as if to block out the words I've just uttered.

Hers is the weeping of a little girl, betrayed.

All I can do is hold her.

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**A/N:** Reviews are love, and WIP's are possible. A second chapter is in the works. This stuff is hard to write, but Cassie's situation feels totally unresolved, which I don't like at all.


	2. The Clouds were Still

**Title: **Preservation

**Author:** Kourion

**Authors notes:** please be advised that the style of writing used in this chapter is deliberately…child-like in tone, as to convey the thoughts/ feelings/ confusion of a child undergoing sexual abuse. Additionally, abused children often regress during periods of abuse, and so Cassie's language and references were kept deliberately immature. At the same time, even in canon, Cassie speaks and acts bizarrely – although this take on her past is just _one _take which I feel could help explain her issues with self-harm, disordered eating and flirtations with suicide.

****//**\\****

**Second Chapter**

**i am seven.**

When I was a very tiny girl, I was terrified of the dark.

I found it to be suffocating… like a quilt with no end, compressing my spirit and ironing out my lungs like a steamroller, until no air remained.

I'd wake up and gasp – mouth opening and closing like a beached water creature struggling to breathe. _Gasp, gasp, gasp._

The dark would scare me, I think, because I wouldn't be able to get _away_. Sometimes I would see things move – like birds that turned to bats and would sit on my desk. And the bats would stare at me with their beady eyes and I'd scream.

Shapes, too, would be altered in the charcoal blackness, and I'd cower under my blankets, tapping my tiny cold feet against the white iron bed frame until welts would raise up on my ankles.

Mummy would come as soon as I'd scream, because she was the only one who could get rid of shadows, and if she didn't, the McGregor's next door would complain about _"that poor, disturbed child,"_ and daddy would hiss at her… _hiss, hiss, hiss_ – like a snake, and the Grown-up hugs would _stop_.

So mummy would always come, and she would be red faced and sticky smelling from the hugging, until I'd point at some item that had moved. A chair, maybe, or my jumper. And mummy would get angry. Not in a SURFACE angry way, because she was_ mummy_, and she only got angry in a _quiet_ way.

Although you could sense that she was angry, because the waterfall of anger would be shusssssshing out her words and _**I just. Always. Knew. **_

"_Cassie, darling. You're seven years old now. That's not a baby now…is it poppet?"_

I'd shake my head – _no – no, I'm not a baby._

But my face would show my fear, and she couldn't ignore my pleas. Not when I was seven.

_Flick, flick, flick, flick – sizzle, pop_. On would turn the lights, the bulbs, the lamps in the room, and the hallway lights too - making everything even _more_ unreal than the darkness had been with its soft moonlight and starlight beams.

"_**See**__ poppet? Nothing bad in the room, lovey. __**Nothing at all**__. Can we go back to sleep now?"_

And I'd grin a gap-toothed grin. Embarrassed, I'd reach for my blanket, and unravel the blue silk thread until mummy would remove it from my hands, kiss my eyes, my eyelashes, and the tip of my nose.

"_One kiss for Cassie's nose. One for each eye, and a smoochy one for her cheeks."_

I'd laugh – the fear temporarily gone, and mummy would flounce out of the room. If it wasn't too late, daddy and mummy would begin their hugging again, and I'd listen to them hug really fast like adults do…and the bed would hit the wall, and mummy's _oooooh marcus, ooooooh yes!'_es would start, and I would count the taps, and fall asleep to the taps, and the counting would keep me from getting scared.

**i am eight****.**

Sometimes I would get **SO** scared that I wouldn't be able to breathe at all, and then the room would grow swirly and strange, and I'd see little lights_ ping, ping, pinging_ in my skull. The little lights would hit my brain and bounce around like baby electric ping-pong balls and drive the bats away, and the lights would even scare off the trees that moved closer to my window, with their branches coming out to choke me. Even when the trees started to look like men with wicked, hollow eyes – even then the lights would cause me to _**go away**_, and then I'd wake up and not be afraid anymore.

And so I hated the lights and loved the lights all at once. Because the trees and the bats and the shadow monsters couldn't come when the came into my head and made everything else fuzzy. But when it was dark, and the lights didn't come - the trees would turn to men, and the men would turn to shadow monsters, and the shadow monsters would come to eat parts of me. Not all of me, but little tastes… enough to hurt my skin and make me want to cry.

When I told mummy about the lights that would go off in my brain now, when I tried not TO think of the shadow monster – she got _REALLY_ upset. And daddy even got MAD when I told her that the lights were not nearly as scary as the bats or the trees that could move little bits between when you closed your eyes and when you'd open them again.

I remember that mummy started begging me to stop telling fibs – over and over_, "stop LYING to me, Cassandra!"_ – even though I kept telling her I was not telling any fibs, and then I got angry so fast that I screamed and chucked my Bunnikins plate with the Bunnikins spoon against the wall, and the milk and porridge went splat against the wall, and then mummy started crying so much that daddy took her out of the room.

After that, daddy and mummy took me to the Children's Hospital in Cardiff, and I saw gazillion regular doctors in total, and at least three special fancy brain doctors called neurologists.

I later went to other clinics, too – all the way in London.

I had fun going to London.

Daddy bought me malted chips, and was just Daddy. I would suck all the salt off the chips, and then dip them in more malt and salt and do it again. And I got to ride on a Double Decker bus and choose our seats and daddy was so kind and smiled at me all morning, and bought me a special cardigan to wear. It was a special armored cardigan that daddy said was made of special fibers, and if I wore it when I was feeling scared, nothing could go wrong, and he PROMISED. And daddy hardly ever promised, and he had never broken a promise, so I knew it was a very special cardigan.

I think daddy was right, too – because I was wearing my burgundy cardigan when we finally got to the special Children's clinic in London. That was where I first met Dr. Owens who I _loved, loved, __loved_ because he was so sweet like sugar.

The London hospital was a very special hospital for kids who saw things that they shouldn't see – like shadow monsters and trees that moved and birds that turned into bats. I remember mummy was crying then, too, just like before when I screamed that I was NOT LYING and broke my plate and brought my bunnikins knife down into my hand until red pearls of pretty blood came up in the center _because I was so mad that she WOULDN'T LISTEN._

Today, though, I wasn't angry – today I was a little scared, and when I told her that I wanted to leave because I wasn't sick and I was afraid, she stopped crying, and took me into her lap, even though I was almost done GRADE TWO, and stroked my head like our pet cat, Galen, and said,_ "Oh my poppet, oh my sweetheart." _But she stopped crying then, and just fiddled with my braids and the shiny purple ribbons that I had knotted three times by three times, because three is a special number, and I did NOT want to lose my purple ribbons. If I lost them, something bad would happen. I just knew it.

**i am nine**

Dr. Owens was my favorite adult ever, and made me feel like everything would be okay. He was kind, with gentle eyes and a soft, wrinkled face… like one of those funny little wrinkled dogs that has too much skin.

_(Daniel Brundy in my new school says they are called SHAR-pay dogs, which I don't think is right, because SHAR-pay sounds like towel material for soaking up water, and not like an animal title at all. But Daniel Brundy might be right, because he's super smart and lovely and I don't think he would lie to me, even though it's easy to lie to me because I am stupid and NOT NORMAL.)_

Anyway, even though I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, I would sometimes think to myself…that Dr. Owens looked a lot like Santa Claus without the beard - and in funny Kelly green pants, and a starchy white doctors coat.

"_The good news is that I'm starting to reconsider Cassandra's TLE diagnosis. I believe she may be having panic attacks. It's vital that she feels safe,"_ Dr. Owens would say.

Then he would smile at me, to let me know he _**could SEE**_ me, and I wasn't totally _**invisible**_, like I would be if it were any other adult.

And I would give Dr. Owens a big hug before we would leave for Bristol, even though I don't normally like to give hugs to big people, and he would give me candy. I would collect the red lollies he'd hand out, and keep them in a red lidded Tupperware container that I decorated with shiny metallic hearts and neon yellow smiley face stickers; the rosy coloured lollipops became my favorite things in the whole world – even more than my burgundy cardigan, maybe - because Dr. Owens was so lovely.

I'd keep them in bundles, and count them when I was sad. I must have seen Dr. Owens 14 times in total, because I was at 14 suckers before our teatime when mummy told me,

"_Cassie, mugwup – oh poppet…"_

_**Dr. Owens died. **_

I don't know why.

He was a doctor – a neurologist – a fancy brain doctor who couldn't keep the oxygen going to his brain. So when he left me, I think I became even more afraid of the dark, because the dark would squish out my lungs for sure this time - and then I'd die too. I knew it.

When mummy told me why I couldn't see Dr. Owens anymore – that I'd have to see a lady doctor who was…a _"psychiatrist, Cassie – but she's very nice, too"_ – I got very mad and ran out of the living room while we were all having tea and watching Eastenders. I ran so fast and got so dizzy, that I saw the little electric ping pong lights again, but I stayed AWAKE this time, and ran into the bathroom before daddy could catch me.

I don't remember why I did what I did, then – only that I remember being _so upset_ I thought my heart would **burst**, and so I jumped into the shower and turned it scalding hot. I _**needed**_ it to be scalding hot, because I was so terribly sad that Dr. Owens had died, and nothing would ever be OK again, and I needed something super, super hot to hit all my skin so I could forget what had happened. I had to forget that Dr. Owens was in the ground and would never again smile at me, or give me little red suckers.

That night, I cried into my pillow, and carefully moved all 14 little red suckers to my jewelry box, and kissed each one, and thought of Dr. Owens, and how I never got to tell him about the shadow monster, and how maybe he could have helped me if I had, because he was super smart and liked me, and had called me his _"wee pixie-child."_

i am ten

When I turned ten, mummy said she had had ENOUGH.

"_Enough, Cassandra! You're a big, big girl now. I can't be coming in every night to assure you that there is nothing bad in your room!"_

Mum was sharper than daddy, but even daddy nodded and said, _"Mummy's right, Cassie. You're not little anymore," _and then dad would eat his toast and bacon strips, and I'd watch as the oils from the meat sopped onto his napkin, and bleed through the paper. And I'd hate them both, because I still FELT little, and it wasn't fair that I didn't feel _normal_, and it also wasn't fair that I was so scared all the time. I tried to tell them this, but it came out wrong, and then I just got frustrated and told them that things moved when I slept and colours changed and went out of everything and that SCARED me. _And that the dark would take EVERYTHING and crinkle it up…and I would float away and time would STOP. _

Mummy _tssked_ and told me to eat my porridge and stop making up stories, and also to not make little houses out of my food. But I would, still – because she couldn't MAKE me eat her stupid porridge that she couldn't even cook without lumps. So I would smile in my heart, but not on my face, and I'd also not eat the porridge, and I would let the cream became rivulets or moats around the bridge, and my spoon would be the drawbridge and it was very pretty…

"_Eat your porridge, Cassandra!"_

I'd sniff, and take a bit, and spit the porridge into my napkin, because the porridge wasn't _right_ to eat.

The porridge had lumps.

And I couldn't eat lumps, because the lumps would sit in my stomach and clog me all up and then all the food would back up and I would **die** because none of the food would get by. I _**knew it was true**_, because I had seen a little blonde girl on the telly the week before who had to have an operation, and the doctors said she had a very bad stomach, and then she _**died**_ because her stomach was so swollen and scarred. And she looked just like me. She really was very CLOSE to me, and I got around to thinking that maybe if my mum and dad had had Sex differently one night when daddy's parts met mum's and made me…well, then…maybe I'd have BEEN that girl, and _**I'd**_ be dead now.

I told mummy that, and she slapped me.

"_You have no right talking about our grown up hugging like that, Cassandra. That's very rude."_

Mummy started called it grown up hugging when I was five, and I walked in on daddy on top of mummy with no clothes. I started crying because mummy looked like she was in pain and her mouth was open, so I ran in and started hitting daddy, until he came out of her and covered his thing, and yelled at me to leave the room.

And later mum told me that daddy wasn't hurting her – he was "loving her"; they were just having a "grown up hug." When you got big, they said, that's how I'd hug too – because that's how you loved someone if they were a boy, and you were a girl. It didn't matter, they said, if I understood _now_, so long as I just trusted that they knew right and didn't argue anymore, and be "good."

But I wasn't five anymore. I was ten, and I KNEW it was called sex.

And anyway, the girl on the telly was 10 too, and _also_ had blonde hair and brown eyes. Her hair might have been darker than mine, maybe, but not by much.

I had bad tummy aches all the time too.

**i am eleven**

So I wouldn't eat the porridge, because the porridge had lumps. And I wouldn't eat the cornflakes, because the cornflakes had rough edges that would cut my stomach to ribbons. Instead, I would sit with ½ tablespoon of peanut butter and lick at it, and then squish 1/3 of a banana with the back of the tablespoon until hit the banana until it was all mushed up like baby food. Then I'd _chew, chew, chew_ and then all the food would be soft and I would be _okay_.

Mummy didn't think I'd be okay if I keep eating like this, because I wasn't _**"looking right"**_ anymore. Mum thought I looked like a _"stick,"_ and wouldn't _"have"_ anymore of my _"eating issues."_

"_Enough Cassandra! I'm sick of this! This has got to stop!"_

_**I**_ knew it would be okay though, because if I looked like a stick, then shadow monsters couldn't come – because I wouldn't be able to give them anything to eat. I'd be too thin to even CAST a shadow – just like magic - and that was my happy thought. It was the only thought that kept me from crying at night: that I could get so thin that I could walk in the shade and even the _shadow monster_ couldn't see me coming. Or if he did, he wouldn't know it was me – Cassandra Jane Ainsworth – because he wouldn't be able to _recognize_ Cassandra Jane Ainsworth anymore, and that would be _almost as good_.

I would think then that all I had to do was just get things right, and pay attention to all my rules, and eat in my safe numbers – and if I did ALL of that, then I would _GET THERE_.

I didn't know where 'THERE' was, really. But I knew it wasn't in this house, in Bristol. I knew it wasn't in my bedroom, or the bathroom, or anywhere I could think of, except maybe the park. Because the park was always filled with happy, warm people, and every time I had ever been there – it had always been light and sunny and safe. So the park seemed like the best place to be.

All the same, I couldn't LIVE in the park, and I wouldn't be safe anywhere else, because you never KNEW when your parents would leave and the shadow monster would come back. Besides, I had finally gotten too big to wear the cardigan that daddy had gotten for me when I was eight, on account of my growth spurt. Daddy called this time "puberty," which I thought of as a really funny word – because it reminded me of the boys' name, _Hubert_. Which, if you think about it, is a hilarious name.

But the week after daddy said that, I didn't think it was a very funny word at ALL, because it was mentioned in health class on a day when all the boys had to leave to go play rugby, and all the girls had to stay to discuss "becoming women." I learned that puberty was _bad, bad, bad_. I learned that puberty would probably make the shadow monster want to eat me _even more_, and that I would get eaten very, very quickly unless I could stop everything RIGHT NOW.

I didn't know how I was to manage it, but I knew what I'd have to do. I had to stop puberty, and I had to get smaller again, just enough to fit my burgundy cardigan, just _in case_. Because daddy had PROMISED that I would always be safe if I wore it.

**I am twelve.**

I am fatter this week than last week, and that's SUPER bad, because now I have boobies just like my new friend Michelle. Which may be "great" in her opinion – but I think that's only because Michelle has a _crush_ and thinks that'll get the boy she likes to like her back.

But it's BAD for me, because Michelle also just got her first _period_, which probably means I'm next. And even if she doesn't know it yet – that's really awful…because that's when boys start wanting to _do_ things –and that's _also_ when shadow monsters come out more and more. (I don't tell Michelle this because I know she wouldn't understand. She would just think I stole one of Ainsley's joints again, or maybe drank the rest of my mum's cooking sherry or my dad's beer, or whatever – because I do that sometimes, and it helps. It really does. It makes everything fade away and feel lovely and numb and just wonderful).

Now that I'm in junior high I have to be careful, careful though – because I don't want all the new kids to think I'm so strange like they did when I was littler, when we lived in our yellow house by the botanical gardens. When we lived on Clement St., all the kids HATED me. So now that we live in a new place, I have to keep everything PERFECT. I have to do everything _right_.

And that means NOT talking about shadow monsters or holding my breath until I go dizzy and pass out, or sitting in hot water until mum unlocks the door and takes me to the clinic. Most definitely, that means NOT having to go back to the lady shrink mum used to make me see: Dr. Cassidy thought I was all sorts of cuckoo.

And this is what I'm thinking about when I start eating my lunch at the kitchen counter. _Chew 28 times_, _swallow 14 sips of water, chew 28 times_…

I need to get it right, because if I don't, something bad will happen.

It's then that I hear the door unlock, and the creeeeaking sound, and daddy call out, _"Kiddums?"_

I put down my banana and wipe at my mouth very carefully, and hide the peel before he can see. I sip at my water and wave as he enters the kitchen and give him a tiny smile, fiddle with the purple rims of my new glasses.

"_Hey Cassie… don't you look gorrrgeous!"_

Daddy's trying to be kind, because I just got new glasses. The doctor said my vision was all sorts of crappy, and mum thinks it's on account of staying up too late and reading in the dark.

"_You look cute, kiddums. Really cute! Glasses are your thing."_

I grin, awkwardly, and fiddle with the purple rims. I don't think glasses are my thing. I think glasses make me look ugly and goggle-eyed and stranger than I already look, but I don't mention this to daddy. He's trying to give me a compliment.

I smile again, at my glass of water, nervous. And take a sip.

"So…" Daddy rubs his hands together. "What are you doing tonight, young lady?"

He's studying me - taking in my outfit - when I hear the door open again, and mum shuffles in with four bags of groceries.

"Eggplant, carrots, LOW fat dill dressing, a 5 lb bag of blueberries, and skim milk; I got everything you asked for…. so I want you to _EAT_ this food, Cass. I can't take anymore of these games."

I nod, mumble an agreement, and cover my mouth with my hands to conceal my braces.

_Ugly, stupid loser. Fatfatfatfatfat_

"….and did you finish your…?…_Cassie_…pay attention!"

_**Hmmm?**_

"Your dad's picking you up tonight. 3:30, front entrance. And I don't CARE if you have plans with Michelle. You live here, not there… I don't want you imposing yourself on her family…"

Mum readjusts her blouse, and I squirm in my cardigan.

"For god's sake, Cassandra! That better _NOT_ be what I think it is…. Maurice….just….," and mum stalks out of the room, arms held up in desperation.

I finally can fit my cardigan again. I've been wearing it every day for a week.

But this is the first time they've noticed.

I can hear pots and pats clink around downstairs. Mummy's making dinner – cooking me a "special birthday dinner."

My birthday was two weeks ago, but I was deathly sick that night and brought up all the cake and ice cream I shoved down into my pink little tummy. I really shouldn't have started in on cake and ice cream. It's wretched-awful-unhealthy, and I just couldn't keep it down.

So, up it came.

_**Almost on it's own…**_

And then I felt better. Uncomplicated, hollowed out.

_**Pure.**_

"_Kiddums? _Feeling better, mugwump?"

Daddy knocks once, and I startle. He opens the door and stands in the light of the hallway, going black as he does so. All I can see is his outline, and faint tendrils of heat – steam – rising up off a Buddha bowl.

"Dinner, kiddums. We've got to get more food into you, Cass."

I cross my hands over my chest, and stare down.

"I'm not h-hungry, daddy."

He comes in a bit more.

"Daddy…I'm…please…d-daddy…. I…I'm getting a bath…"

I splash the water a bit, and make the bubbles froth up. It helps to cover me in a slight sheet of foam.

"Daddy…where's mum? I…d-don't think…."

I don't know why he's here.

_**How can he be here?**_

He laughs at my confusion, brings the bowl up under my mouth, inches away.

"Couple bites, and I'll leave."

"Daddeeee – _please_."

He raises a cooked carrot to my mouth.

"Couple bites…"

I take the carrot. My stomach does not want this, my heart does not want this.

_Eatitjust eat it…. EAT! He'll leave._

I take the food from his fingers, and swallow the offering nearly whole. A couple more pieces, then:

"Dad, where's mum?"

He looks amused.

"At the gallery. Mr. Keagen called her in. Just you and me, kiddums. We can watch _**The Last Unicorn**_ – mummy rented it for you."

"Oh?"

My voice cracks, and Dad laughs.

"Don't sound _so_ excited, sweetheart."

_**Wherearemy glasses?**_

"I…I will be down soon, yeah?"

I have to get something out of my stomach first.

He nods, grins, all teeth.

"I'll turn on the heating blanket for you, poppet."

He puts the Buddha bowl on the floor.

_**You have to go. I need to throw up.**_

He leaves.

I open my mouth and drink some water from the spout, then grab my bathrobe and drain the tub.

Then it's door closed, toilet seat up, a punch to the stomach, two fingers to the throat.

And the fucking carrots swim at the bottom of the porcelain bowl – looking as fresh and whole as the day they were picked.

_**Where are my glasses?!**_

Daddy knows I can't see without my glasses.

I am still damp from the bath, and my skin prickles in the chill of the night. I'm wearing my school skirt and gray tights, Mary Jane shoes, my undershirt, and the cardigan.

But it's early November. And I'm freezing. My hair is still wet, and I can't see, and my body won't stop trembling. And my stomach won't stop hurting. It hurt, hurt, hurts… And the heat of the bath was helping, but now I'm standing by the duck pond, and it's late and I feel so god-awful and ugly and sick, and mummy's not home, and I don't know how to get to Michelle's.

_Don't cry. Don't cry, you baby. You fat, fat, loser, fat, baby!_

A noise – a snap of twigs, and I turn quickly. I can't see well without my glasses.

Another snap, a plish-plosh sound of something plunking into water, and then I hear quaking, and turn towards the pond.

By the dim, flickering light of the lantern I can barely see some fuzzy creature skirt by over the reeds. Green head and black body, and it waddles near me and quacks once more.

"Hello, ducky," I whisper to animal. It stills, and although I cannot see him, or her, very clearly – I imagine it is staring at me with a look of wonderment.

"You're lovely, ducky."

And she starts to swim away, and I feel something tug and pull apart in my heart.

No, don't leave me, little duck…

_**I'm lonely.**_

"Don't go…" I breathe – my breath white in the chilled autumn air.

"I need a friend, ducky…."

_I'm afraid._

But he's gone.

_I need help._

_I am_. I'm afraid, in this park, at night. It's so silent, it unnerves me. And the moon is out, but it's casting shadows, and I can't see well, and none of the trees have leaves left. There are no more green arms. They only have stick arms. Like skeletons. And the clouds aren't lazily moving across the sky. They are frozen. They are frozen still…

_And none of them seem friendly…_

I back up against an evergreen, and sit under her arms, on her pile of evergreen pine needles. They cut up into my bottom, through my tights, and I resist the urge to scratch. I resist the urge to move, but I have to…

_I can't stay here any longer…._

**You have to, you fucking baby.**

_It's too cold. I can't feel my fingers._

**Then go to sleep.**

_Something bad will happen._

**Then go to sleep now. Before he comes. Before it can happen again. **

_The shadow monster will get me._

**Go to sleep.**

_He'll eat me._

**Sleep…you know you want to sleep…**

_I'm so cold._

**Sleep now, and nothing bad can happen….**

I scream. Once. It's a terribly loud sound.

But it's only in my head.

'_I think…'_

'_**You were begging for it to stop.'**_

'_What?'_

'_**Do you remember the blood?'**_

'_No! That never happened. I'm okay.'_

'_I'm warm.'_

'_I'm warm.'_

I'm in a warm bed.

I'm wearing pajamas.

My pajamas are wet.

_Why are my pajamas wet?_

**You know what he did.**

_**It was a nightmare! Only a nightmare.**_

You know it wasn't _only_ a nightmare.

_**Itwasn'treal.**_

Yes, it was…

You know it was…

You know it's why…

You are like this…

_**Iknow.**_

_**I know. **_

_**Oh god.**_

"Wake up, Cassie!"

Sid.

Sid.

My Sid.

"_**Sid?"**_

_I feel as if I've swallowed broken glass._

_I want to cry._

_I never want to stop crying._

_I don't want to cry._

_I never want to start crying._

"**Yeah, Cass. It's just me. You were having a nightmare again, baby."**

_**My throat hurts.**_

_**I want to scream.**_

_**I want to cut open my fucking wrists.**_

_You are such a screwed up, ugly bitch._

_**Why are the sheets wet?**_

"You were having a really bad nightmare, Cass. Do you want to talk about it?"

_**no, no, no, I can't.**_

_you want to tell him_

_**I don't want him to know.**_

"You're having so many of them Cassie. All the time. It…worries me. I think maybe it would help – to talk? Maybe to talk about them, maybe just to talk about what happens in them? Sometimes that helps – to keep them from coming back…"

_He wants you to tell him. To trust him._

_No, he thinks he has to say that._

_He feels guilty for fucking you up…._

_worse than you already are… _

_**He's trying to make up for Michelle…**_

"I don't want to talk about them, Sid. They're not nice images. I want to think about lovely things, and everything in them is horrible."

_That almost sounded sincere…._

_**Get out of my head!**_

_**I don't want to remember!**_

-He's stroking my hand

back and forth

back and forth-

_He's trying to comfort you._

_**He'll hate me.**_

_He's already heard you scream._

_He already knows what happened._

_And he's still_

_**Here…with me.**_

"You're getting too thin again, love. The…hair is back. On your arms."

**He thinks I'm ugly.**

_No, he doesn't._

_He thinks you're sick._

_And you are._

_**But I can't go back…and if I tell…**_

_He'll get you help._

_**I'm afraid…to get help.**_

_To change._

_**Yes.**_

_And to tell him…everything._

_**Yes.**_

"I don't want to talk about that either, Sid. I just…don't. You won't understand, and I can't make you understand."

"_Understand what? You remember what that doctor said…about the signs? You can't relapse, Cass. Not like before…"_

_don't lie to him._

_**I won't.**_

_You want to get sick again._

_**I don't know.**_

_Maybe?_

_**Maybe.**_

_Tell him. _

_Tell him before this kills you._

_Or before he leaves._

_**Okay…**_

_Okay…_

_Just…don't leave me._

_**I won't.**_

Reviews are love.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title - **Preservation

**Chapter 3 -** Too Late

* * *

_Sid's POV_

* * *

I, of course, don't sleep.

At first I just hold her until she falls asleep, her entire pillow soaked with sweat or tears - maybe both.

I then slowly extricate my hands from under her body, her head, and disentangle myself from the sheets and the bed, and pace on over to the window, taking in the crescent moon. The startling pure glint of white light.

**_*How could anyone do that to a child?*_**

I don't know who hurt her. But I have an idea.

**_"How could anyone rape a little girl?*_**

I have...a suspicion.

She stirs an hour or so later, as I glance over at the restless legs - legs kicking back and forth against the ridiculously rose-girly butterfly percale sheets she made me put on the bed. I guess it's really _our _bed, but Cassie said it wouldn't feel like _her_ bed - "**_not at all" _**- without butterfly sheets.

I didn't care that much, really, and I certainly wasn't going to complain after she washed the things in almond scented Downy, ironing out imaginary lines and creases that probably never existed in the first place. The pillow cases too, all new, all ironed, all washed in ridiculous amounts of cleanser and fabric softener.

_"I like soft things," _Cass had said._ "I like soft, clean things."_

That statement hadn't made me sad then.

It makes me so sad now.

* * *

When she finally wakes up - far later than typical - it is quarter after 7 in the morning. Which isn't really very late at all, but Cassie hardly seems to sleep much past that time anyway, regardless of when she falls asleep.

And she's pretending like nothing has happened. That, of course _is _typical.

Big grin, messy hair, eyes trailing green-blue remnant eyeshadow that she didn't exactly remove before bed. They make it look like two silvery-teal bruises or evergreen halos around each eye.

"Oh it's going to be SUNNY today!," she says with, what seems like, genuine cheer. "And the birds are chirping! Oh a robin, Sid - see! A _robin_!"

I don't really care about some damn robin. I don't really care about _any_ damn bird right now.

A _bloody bald eagle _could be peering through our window...I wouldn't care that much!

Not right now.

Not today.

Not...after last**_ night._**

"Cass, we need to talk."

I see it then: that faltering, slipping smile. Just for a moment. Awareness.

And then it is replaced by one of her false _'I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about'_ smiles and a _"Oh, but, Sid - it was just a nightmare."_

Yes, I've heard similar tales before.

But I've never heard such back story before. I never knew _why_ she'd sometimes scream and scream for...minutes, which really is too long to be screaming, and not waking up - and why she'd just shake and shake, and sometimes...why I'd find her crying in the bathroom for no apparent reason at all.

"Look, Sid. I KNOW. I woke you up. I'm sorry. I'm **_sorry."_**

She stresses the second sorry _double-time_. That's Cassie-speak for: _I AM sorry - that you found out. Just drop it._

"I don't want you to be _sorry_, Cass. I want you to _talk_ to me. You were talking to me last night. Why can't we talk some more now?"

I should know better than to expect anything more than the look of pure anxiety, the shaky hands that toy with cupboards - closing, opening, closing, opening...all in the name of finding a particular t-shirt that she just _has to wear today_.

"It was just a scary dream, Sid. That's all. I'm-"

"I don't want to hear you say you're sorry again, Cass! Damnit! **I'm** sorry! I'm sorry for what he_ DID _to you. Don't you get that?"

She's looking at the ground now. Immobile. In a second she's going to be looking for her shoes. That's what she'll try for next... Shoes. If only she can leave.

"I'd rather have a picnic, Sidney! A bright festive picnic with little sushi animals, and we can get that apple cola you like from the asian store? That would be so much fun! We could take the Double-Decker and snap pictures from the bus and..."

"No Cass. I won't **STOP IT.** I'm not ignoring this. Not anymore. Not when I KNOW _now_...that this is why you're hurting yourself!"

Her face, a mask - right there, right then. A flicker of anger, a flicker of fear, a flicker of something else - something tugging and pulling.

_Confusion._

"Leave it Sid! You PROMISED last night! You PROMISED I wouldn't have to talk about it again. That would be it! Over and done with! Dead! You PROMISED!"

"I shouldn't have promised before I knew how serious this was...if I had known, I WOULDN'T have promised anything! And it's not dead. It's more alive than you being so-called happy...your _fake-Cassie-happiness with brightly coloured candy and cute things and fucking **UNREAL** things - don't you see?_ Your arms are lined like a train track, some person broke your wrist, Cass, some person held you down and-"

"No-" Soft. Too soft under my anger.

**_*'I like soft and clean things.'*_**

"Someone DID break your wrist - and the proof is right there. Someone raped-"

"SHUT UP! FUCKING **_SHUT UP_**, SID!"

Her voice that time is _not _soft. Her voice that time is _not _clean.

"YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS! WHY? WHY would you want to talk about something so ugly?"

She runs to her cabinet, opens the door, riffles around looking for something.

Comes back with a small burgundy sweater.

"Let's see, still. Let's SEE, SIDNEY. Let's see if it will keep me safe. Keep the pain away!," and Cassie sob-cry-laughs then. Tears merging with an almost hysterical giggle.

And before I know it, she has her lean arms sticking up under the child sized cardigan, stretching the thing, but definitely...definitely trying to put it on.

"Stop it, Cass-," I try, unnerved.

I pad across the room, where she has most of the blasted garment on already. It's far too short. But it fits her width. It fits _across._

And that stuns me.

Because it's like...made for a 6 year old child. And the thin material further highlights my girlfriends recent, continued, weight loss.

"Fuck this, Cassie! You don't have to do this. This doesn't MEAN ANYTHING. STOP IT!"

But the laugh-crying is continuing, and she giggles as she smooths the red wool over her concave belly, the hollows of her hipbones sticking out, the reed-thin wrists dangling down.

She wipes at her eyes and falls in a red blurry mess to the bed, her eyes now totally swollen, bloated. The evergreen colour mingling down her cheeks like some perverse watercolour.

Cassie mummbles something, which I don't catch. She's sobbing next thing, though, and I don't know if I should come over to her side, or stay where I am...

**I go to her.**

"What, Cass? What did you say, sweetheart?"

"_It was to keep me safe_, he said. It was a...magic sweater. It was going to keep me safe. If I could wear it, he said - I'd be safe. **_He said_**!"

The voice is shrill, and she pounds on my chest. I have a deja-vu experience, recalling last night's events.

"**_Who_** said you'd be safe?," I whisper against her ear, her face turned away from me.

She's probably mucking up her bedding. Oh yeah - there's going to be a lot of laundry being washed later today.

"Can't you know? _Why do I have to tell you? **Can't you just know?**_ I don't want to say, I don't want to_ say, _Sid."

"But why, Cass. Why would that hurt - to say? Someone gave you a cardigan, as a little kid. They said it'd keep you safe, and-"

And then I feel something squirm in my guts. Something evil, offensive.

**_*'Why do I have to tell you? Can't you just know?'*_**

"He promised. **_He promised_**, Sid. Why'd he promise? _Why'd he tell me I'd be safe if he knew it wasn't true?"_

**_*'If he knew it wasn't true...* *'If he knew it wasn't true...'*_**

Her words repeating, like a sick looped tape. I can taste bile.

I know, just a little, what it must be for Cassie when she wants to vomit.

I need to know, for her. To help her.

And I don't want to know.

"Did your grandpa give you the sweater?," I try, swirling circles on her back.

She shakes her head. **_No._**

"Your...uncle?"

Another shake of the head, another **_No._**

Apparently...she'll play 20 questions with me. But she won't say it directly.

**_*She wants me to ask her*_**

**_*She wants me to know...*_**

**_*She doesn't want to have to say...*_**

"Was it...was it your father? Was it your dad, Cass?"

And I know when she hugs me, that it **_is_**, and **_was_**.

I know when she hugs me, wrapping vein-stretched arms around my back, her warm, frantic breath against my ears, trying not to cry, trying not to cry at all.

...trying to not say, **_'Yes.'_**

I know then - I know it's her father.

Her father gave her the sweater.

Her father hurt her in the park, too.

I know it's the same person. I know it in my **_gut._**

After a few minutes, I slowly rise, orient myself upright, and Cassie follows wiping at her eyes, mute.

"We have to tell someone, Cassie," I try, tentatively.

She looks at her lap, twirling old yarn from the sweater...watching it unravel, transfixed.

At long last, "Why?"

Soft. Like a butterflies landing.

I feel totally...flabbergasted.

"Because your...your dad HELD YOU DOWN, and broke your ARM Cass! When you were 12 years old! Then he molested you. And then he _raped _you! He should be locked up for the rest of his life! He should be in_ jail_!"

And I'm not yelling. But I'm _almost _yelling.

Luckily I closed all the windows earlier, but I lower my voice all the same, realizing getting so angry is scaring her.

"We _have_ to, Cass..."

She wipes the overflow of tears away from her eyes, rubs her hands back and forth over the sweater. Looks...dejected.

"It's...it's _over_ now. It happened a _long time ago_. So long ago it almost never happened at all."

"That doesn't even MAKE SENSE, Cassie!"

"It did! _It_-"

"And that's it, isn't it? Just like that? He hurts you _once! _And that's it? People who sexually abuse their daughters don't hurt them once, Cassie!," and I crouch down low, trying to meet her eyes. Trying to get her to talk to me.

"And you lived with him - until...until..."

_***Until you were in the clinic. Until you nearly starved yourself to death, and got put in Restorations. And then maybe, when you came home. Maybe then he didn't touch you. Maybe.***_

_***and then you went back to the hospital...so maybe not...***_

"It doesn't MATTER what I say, Sid! There's no evidence, anyway! There's no proof! And I don't want...anyone to..."

"**_You don't want anyone to know_**, right? You can't even say who hurt you. Even to me, right _now_. Go on, Cassie. Say it. _Say _what your father did to you! You've as much as admitted to it - so just say it aloud so I can hear it come from your mouth!"

"It doesn't _MATTER _**what** he did to me! I just went ahead and gave it away to everyone else who asked, and so none of it matters anymore, and none of it hurts anymore! _Sex doesn't matter_. None of it matters. _It_ doesn't hurt anymore! I made it stop hurting. I made _him stop hurting! _Why do I have to talk about it anymore? **_Why_**, Sid?"

I pull back from her, totally numb, feeling like she's hit me with her words - knocked the wind out of me. I finally wander over to the couch, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Because it's eating you up inside, Cassie - despite what you say..."

"_No_, and-"

"**AND**, CASS... Let's talk about "ands"..._and_ you have a little brother! A baby brother!"

The thought just came to me, and upon realization, I knew I couldn't dismiss it.

"He won't..._he won't _touch Reuben..."

"How can you know?"

"He won't."

"How can you _know for sure_, Cass? For sure? Because he's a boy? Is that it? It doesn't *matter* Cass! If he hurt you, he could hurt him too!"

"Because _I'll kill him_ if he does!," and her eyes are too wild, and the scars on her arms are too fresh for me just to discount her outright.

I don't know how to proceed. I can't just...tell her secrets for her. I can't just go to the police, testify for her.

And I don't want to push her.

But if her brother is at risk...

"Cass...anything you'd do...it would come too late. It would always come too late."

"I _know_, Sid."

She gets up, turns from me, and slowly removes the old, faded sweater.

"Can I, though? Do you think?"

I don't know what she's asking. Not fully.

I offer her my hand.

"I'll help you. I'll stay with you. I _won't_ leave you."

She looks...scared.

"I know you can't...can't trust promises so much anymore, but you can always take my hand..."

She still looks anxious.

"Then how about this. I only want you to do this...to tell someone, *if* I can help you. If I can be there _with_ you."

A deep exhalation, a look, and that wretched symbol, the cardigan, still there - still held between her hands. Still wishing it was a symbol of safety. Still wishing she could believe in something that could always protect her. Or believe in the people who said they would.

"It will get better...afterwards. It will...help. All this stuff you've been carrying. It's like...the biggest weight...and telling someone will help make it...not be so heavy. Trust me."

"_Yeah?," _she starts, turning the sweater over once more, focused on one of the bear buttons. "But Sid?"

"Mmmh?"

"Do you think...something like that...can ever feel, really feel, like it never happened, if it _did_?"

The voice is so small, so childlike, that it almost takes my breath away. Almost drowns me in pain for her.

She mumbles something about wanting to sleep some more, just a little more, and I squash down my fears that she just wants to run away from this, that she's getting swallowed up in her depression, like before.

"**You're** not..._broken_, Cass. You're not meant to be broken. Before - last night...when you said your wrist, breaking your wrist...was the only thing that made him stop. That it was the only_ pretty thing left_, because it made him stop...it was you that found something to take your mind off it. Something to hold onto to survive. That was your strength. So even if...you can't make it disappear, you can know that it made you stronger, not weaker..."

Again, she wants to sleep a bit more. _"To wake up and be a stronger person." _

"You found a way to save yourself, Cassie. When there was _no one_. This...this is for Reuben and you, both. This is to ensure that something that could happen, something bad, won't. Not for him."

She hands me the sweater, the torn, child sweater. Burgundy sweater with bear buttons.

"I want to fix it, Sid. Not for me. For Reuben. So I can give it to him. So I can...make it right. Like it was _supposed _to be... "

I trail a wispy tendril of blonde hair beneath her ear, curl it up by her ear, away from the little fruit earrings she's taken to wearing.

"You can't_ promise _him that, Cass. There's no such thing as magic sweaters. There's no such thing as...being able to promise that the people you want to stay safe, will _always stay _safe..."

She lets me unfurl the fabric from her fingers, fatigue quickly pulling her back into a gentle sleep.

"But can I promise him I'll always _try_?"

I take the sweater, understand what she's saying...what this _means._

What she's saying she'll do.

"Yeah, you can promise him that, Cass," I say finally, returning groggily to the bed before I realize that she's fallen back asleep.

All I can hope is that her sleep will be better now.

* * *

It seems to be.


End file.
